Long Game 2: The Devil's Den

[Herowannabe]

[haunt]Mua ha ha! [/haunt]

 

EDIT:

[oochaunt]Unfortunately the site I uploaded the image to compressed the image more than I would have liked. If anyone would like a hi-res version of the image, PM me with your email address and I'll send you one[/oochaunt]

Edited February 24, 2014 by Herowannabe

[Aonar]

Hero, I'm taking that as a personal challenge to see how much of that I can translate before I need to sleep.   I'll update this post as I go.

 

I have failed you.
I have planned these messages, knowing a calamity is coming, hoping that I might find some secret that might be of use should I fall to the Inquisitor's scheming. Yet, I have nothing. I do not know who the Spiked Crewmembers are. The only thing I can think of is to continue to vote for the most likely suspects until our crew has been purged.
However if you are reading this I have failed. That means I am probably dead. As I write this I find that prospect to be less tragic than I might have previously assumed. I would rather not deal with the traitors. They have been my constant companions, voices that whisper lies to me always, telling me to destroy innocent friends.

I fear they have corrupted our Crew.

I do know that these words must be written in steel to be preserved. I have written them in a steel sheet and ordered them scribed into a plate, knowing that in so doing I reveal my weakness to the Crew. Some have whispered to me that I am a fool to expose myself by writing this and letting others see it.

That is primarily why I decided to go through with the creation of messages. Doing so seemed to make the Inquisitor angry. That is reason enough, I think. It is good that some few of my companions know my weakness, if only for the good of the Crew, should I somehow fall.  

I have tried to be a good Tineye. At first, I was too young, too foolish. I made mistakes. Yet I have tried so hard. I nearly destroyed Crew with my arrogance, and yet I fear I have nearly destroyed it again through my accusations. I can do better. I will do better. I will create a Crew of order.

Regardless, this is not the place for justification, for I am-after a form-Crewleader. Yet, I know there are those more powerful than I. If I am destroyed, they will be the cause of that destruction.

My advice to give is this:

Trust Aspren's dying words. His main suspicions are as good as mine.

Heed the words of the other Tineye, if he still lives. He can be trusted, and he knows who else can also be trusted.

Act swiftly. Learn who to trust, and who to be suspicious of.

Perhaps these words will help you survive a little longer. Perhaps not. I am dead. I doubt that I should care.

Still, I do. For you are my people. I am Herwynbe. That is what it must mean: Hero Wannabe, a Hero who desires his friends to live through the ages, as I do.

Know that the Spiked members' powers are not complete. They can be killed. Fortunately, Modeft and I have hidden the antidote well.

 

I think that's all I'm doing for tonight. Anyone who wants to can feel free to take over.

 

Props to Claincy by the way for making a translation key. 

 

This message seems to be a revised version of TLR's message in HoA, if that helps any other translators.

Edited February 25, 2014 by AonarFaileas

[Alvron]

RIP Herwynbe. You shall be missed, even your irritatingly cryptic messages.

[Claincy]

Props to Claincy by the way for making a translation key. 

The key was more a side effect of making the font

 

I have translated the whole thing, I shouldn't really post it though, being dead and all. Oh...right....dead, gotcha, bye. Good luck all!

 

At least one person will expect me to put a message here, so here it is.

Edited February 24, 2014 by lord Claincy Ffnord

[Quiver]

Why yes computer, how did you know I wanted to have my RP handiwork destroyed? How remarkably convenient you are!

So... I wanted to try and post this with a role play section; my name is up, and I'd like to finish Quillion's character arc. But, as I said, I've had technical difficulties, so I guess I'll defer that and either post or edit it in later.

Anyway... we're falling back into the silence routine, which... I said before was bad idea. So, as great as Hero's latest message was (and it was), I figure I ought to get the ball rolling on lynching discussions.

Honestly, of the Final Four, the one I'm most suspicious of is Roban. The problem is that it isn't based on evidence as much as it is gut feeling; he called for Hero's lynching almost from the start, but given how useful we made uberTin for Cessie, I don't know if advocating taking him out would be a spike move. That said, he's been a bit more quiet recently, which I think started about the time Cessie was lynched? Which would certainly be a good way of directing attention away from himself.

All of which is vague and circumstantial, I know, but I'm not the Thinker of this game. That's you guys, and if this stirs up some discussion, then good, because we need to decide what to do. Despite the earlier disasters in the game, I still trust my instincts a bit, so, I guess I'm casting a vote for Roban.

[Alvron]

damnation you Modeft.  You said you would give us the cure once the inquisitor was dead.  Well she's dead alright, there's pieces of her spread everywhere.  Only her lackeys are left and you never said anything about them, so give me the blasted antidote already.  Vron thought as he headed towards the hideout for his daily dose of water.

 

Another two dead and with nothing to go on its only a matter of time before my number is up as well.  May the Lord of Games watch over me.

 

Finding an unoccupied table, Vron sat down and removed a box from within his coat.  "Well, I guess there's no point hiding it anymore." he muttered.  Opening the box he pulled out an ornate wooden pipe and pouch of tobacco.  Lighting his pipe Vron leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

 

Lets see what this day brings us.

 

Seeing as that anyone I have been suspicious about have all turned out innocent, (Dyring, Aspren and Kukri) I am going to vote for one of the ones that has flown completely under my radar.  Sorry Grave, but you are almost at the bottom of my list and are therefore the one I now suspect the most.

[Gamma Fiend]

The mists were gone, burned away in the daylight by the blazing red sun. But there was still a heaviness that lay thick on the air. Deep in the Harrow's, there was a veil of silence hanging over the thieving crews' dens. All of their planning and plotting was brought to a halt. All friendly conversation and idle chit-chat had crawled to a stop.

Suspicion and paranoia was thick in the air, flowing off of everybody in waves. The darting eyes, clenched fists, and hostile postures when they all were near eachother was starting to wear the former Modeft's crew down. Even his cursed poison, his 'perfect idea' to keep the crew in line, was at the back of everybody's minds. There were some crew members who hadn't even been seen since this whole ordeal had began, and Gamon had no idea if they were even still kicking, or not.

He may not have known about anybody else, but as for himself, he planned to keep living. And that meant going back to Dyring's Inn for the antidote. The place was now mostly abandoned and in a state of disarray, spots on the ground where blood has seeped into the wooden flooring and stained it a dark red. Flipped over or broken, disheveled furniture, upended and tossed around in the many arguments and fights that had taken place. The messages that had been scrawled on the walls the last few nights, no longer being obsessively washed off every night, were just slightly starting to fade.

Gamon finished his drink in silence, remembering the names of all those who had fallen. He didn't want their sacrifices to be in vain. But who are the traitors?! He furiously asked himself. Every suspicion he has had so far had been dead wrong. And at the cost of innocent lives.

He had been used to being the Cassanova of the crew. The center of attention. The subject of admiration and jealousy in equal regards. But now he realized how foolish he used to be. Never before had his word held so much weight. Not once in his life were his opinions and object of attention scrutinized so badly. Never ever had he been so scared and in such a grave circumstance.

Not yet, he thought. I can't accuse anybody falsely, again. I need more time. I need to be sure!


Edit: Fantastic job on the translation, Aonar. Very nicely done. Many kudos. And kudos to you again, Sir Hero. Your Tineye messages were greatly appreciated this game.

Edited February 25, 2014 by Gamma Fiend

[Aonar]

I finally found the time to finish translating Hero's last message. The original post has been updated with the whole thing.

 

I can now honestly say I can read the Steel Alphabet, but I've also gained a splitting headache for my troubles.

Edited February 25, 2014 by AonarFaileas

[Grayv]

My weird logic is telling me to vote for Mathieu, because if I was the inquisitor i would have spiked those that were spiked the first game just because not many people would suspect them of being spike the second game. Praise the Ja

[Scriptorian]

Trust Aspren's dying words. His main suspicions are as good as mine.

I am rather in favor of not fully following this line of thought, seeing as I was on that list, and I can unequivocally vouch that I am not spiked. Strip search me if you really want to be certain. (Speaking of which, why don't we do this anyway before killing someone? Oh, right. Stoopid game rules.)

[Gamma Fiend]

"Sorry, Roban," Gamon whispered.

He didn't want to do it. He didn't want to be responsible for another innocent life. But he had to. It was getting too close to the wire, the stakes were too high. But with the vote stuck at it's current 3-way-split, the Spiked could control the vote too easily. So something had to be done.
 

So Gamon cast his vote and went to go search for a bottle of alcohol. If he was going to be wrong again.... well let's just say he wasn't going to face that decision sober.

[bartbug]

I have to go with Gamon and Quillion. Red: Roban

Edited February 26, 2014 by bartbug

[Swimmingly]

this, but with square brackets:

{color=red}text here{/color}

Edited February 25, 2014 by Swimmingly

[Robot Aztec]

Okay GRAVE becaeuse iu dont know who at all and sry hero thosit it was oyu guess i am wrong

Edited February 26, 2014 by Metacognition

[Alvron]

Idly smoking his pipe Vron scanned the remnants of Modeft's crew.  Over half the crew dead.  Even if we were to find and kill all the spiked, I doubt that we would have enough to overthrow the inquisitors like Modeft wanted.  Oh well, once I'm cured I'll go visit Alon over in Blackwater Village. He still owes me a few boxings and I think its time I collected.

 

After ordering a bottle of wine Vron pulls a cloth-wrapped bundle from his pouch.  Maybe I'll sent Alon a gift first.  Never hurts to grease the wheel a bit.  Still can't believe no one picked this up when we killed Cessie.  I mean who in their right mind would leave an obsidian blade just lying around, even if it doesn't have a handle.

 

Slipping the bundle back into his pouch, Vron picked up his glass and raising it to some unseen force whispered  "Here's to living for another day."

[Aonar]

Aonar sat back and watched the crew. They scant few who remained were sullen, seldom speaking and doing little more than drinking the few bottles of antidote that were left. It was clear what their problem was. They had lost hope. Thirteen were left of their original twenty-nine, and they all knew that number would be down to ten before next morning. 

 

Even though Aonar knew what was wrong, there was nothing he could do. He'd never before felt so helpless. How did one fight against things as intangible as depression and distrust? 

 

There's only one thing to do I suppose...

 

Downing the last of his own bottle of antidote, Aonar added his voice to the small discussion taking place. "I will vote for Roban. I do not wish to, but to do otherwise is foolishness knowing that the traitors can influence our vote. Survivor help us all if you are wrong about him."  

Edited February 26, 2014 by AonarFaileas

[little wilson]

Hm. Roban...he's not the leading suspect on my list, but he is up there... since you guys seem to be sure, I'll go along with it. Roban . And here's to hoping I survive the night...

Sorry. I don't really have time to say anything else. Or the patience to type it all out on my phone...if I've got time tomorrow (assuming I'm still alive), I'll make a list to hopefully help us find the rest of the Spiked.

[Metacognition]

Night 9 (Silence)

 

The few Crew Members left gathered into small groups, each with only a few handful of members. The tables that just a little over a week ago had been filled with an almost ludicrous number of people seemed vacant and a bit reverent, as if the ghosts of those that used to fill them still watched on. Each little group gathered on opposite sides of the room like little islands of life with the expanse of past desolations between them. Their vibrancy and heart of days past seem muted.

 

The Crew had fallen into a somber silence. It seemed like they were ready to accept their deaths as inevitable. So much so that they could barely bring themselves to even vote on which of them would be next, let alone carry out the act.

 

The only one with any fire left seemed to be Quillion. He still had a score to settle with Lord Ollivier and he wasn’t going to just roll over and die until he had the chance to see it settled.

 

“I’m thinking he killed Dyring to get the Inn for himself!” He whispered to those around him. “And if that’s the case, then he’s probably one of those spiked by the Inquisitor as well.”

 

A few of the people around him nodded, but it was easy to see that their heart wasn’t in it. As such, it was a somber group that approached the bar.

 

“What’ll it be?” Roban asked as they approached. “Considering how things have been going, I think we’ve all earned a few drinks. As such, half off and…”

 

At that point, Roban noticed the look in their eyes. They hadn’t approached him for drinks.

 

“Uh, look guys, I know the place looks worse for the wear right now, but I’ve never handled the entire place by myself! Dyring took care of a lot it, but I promise I’ll get better! It’s just a matter of time! Besides, that twixt hasn’t done nothing for us! If anyone is Spiked, it’s probably him!”

 

All of his pleading fell on deaf ears and the inn lost its second and final owner. More than likely, it’d just become another abandoned building in the Harrows, like The Fishing Hole before it…

 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Night 9 begins! You have 24 hours to get in your night orders, but if I receive them all early, I’ll try to get the write up in early, even if that means that I need to do another write up tonight yet!

 

Roban turned out to be a Regular Crew Member!

 

Player Votes

Roban - 5 (Gamon, Barty, Quillion, Aonar, Wilson)

Grave - 1 (Vron, Roban)

Mathieu - 0 (Grave)

No Vote - 5 (Windrunner, Wes, Seran, Aether, Mathieu)

Edited February 26, 2014 by Metacognition

[Quiver]

Quillion crept through the door under the Urteau canal, leaving a pair of hazekillers unconscious behind him.

In their defence, they weren’t bad guards; he was just better. Even though they had been placed on watch, neither of them had really been expecting any trouble. While they were guarding the entrance, they had had the good sense to realise what might happen if they impeded the entry of an obligator agent. That let Quillion get right up next to them before whipping out his duelling canes. He struck the misting in the leg, dropping him to one-knee, spun, and caught his stunned companion in the side of the head with enough force to break the cane. He couldn’t tell whether it broke the hazekillers skull or not, but the man fell backwards, unconscious.

He turned back to the misting, who was reaching for the flask at his waist. He swung his other weapon up, knocking the vial and the metals within from his grasp before stamping on his wrist. He pointed the shattered end of his broken cane in to the man’s throat.

“Steel, tin or iron?” he asked, his voice a low whisper. If the man in the ground had been a pewter-burner, he would already be on his feet by now.

“I-iron,” the misting stammered. “I’m a lurcher.”

Quillion nodded, then struck him upside the head with whole cane. He was out in moments.

The flask now hung from his waist. He’d collected it and took a swig. Alcohol, laced with iron flakes. He remembered the taste. His father had given him all sorts of concoctions of metals, hoping to find the one Quillion would manage to burn.

He stripped, dropping the travel clothes on the floor of the basement. The ash-stained hood and simple shirt were fine for travelling on the streets but they would draw attention to him inside the Canton. He needed something more in-conspicuous. Fortunately, Ollivier hadn’t bothered to send anyone to retrieve his obligator robes from where he’d stashed them the last time he left. He pulled the robes, embroidered with the symbols of the Canton and the Sliver of Infinity, over his head, and slipped on a pair of soft, clean shoes.

For some reason, they felt uncomfortable. The travel clothes were meant for subterfuge, a high hood to cover his tattoos, loose trousers and shirts to pass among the skaa undetected. This was who he really was, this servant of the Canton. The robes and shoes were more comfortable, especially after spending days and nights sleeping in those ash-stained rags.

And yet… he felt uneasy. The clothes didn’t seem to fit as well as they had before.

It’s my imagination, he thought, trying to dispel the thought. That’s all.

Even so, he shoved his travel clothes into a bag, and slung it over his shoulder. However this encounter went down, he didn’t like the idea of leaving them behind.

And so, finally, the flask of metals on his waist and using the duelling cane as a walking stick, he took a breath, went up the steps, and finally re-entered the Canton of Orthodoxy.

There were guards in the halls, of course, but none tried to stop him. Why would they? It was late, but obligator’s kept odd hours. He had a duelling cane to hand, but these were dangerous times. As he made his way through the building, he nodded courteously to some of the hazekillers and the obligators he passed.

We aren’t bad people, he thought absently. We aren’t that much different from the crew, really. After all, both the leader of the Canton and the leader of the Crew had betrayed their followers in different ways, hadn’t they? Modeft had poisoned their bodies; Ollivier had poisoned Quillion’s soul.

He made his way to Ollivier’s office, and rose his hand to knock on instinct. He caught himself, shook his head, and shoved his way in.

Ollivier was standing behind his desk, looking out at the mists blanketing the city. He glanced back when Quillion entered, but said nothing. The obligator returned the gaze under the lord returned to staring out the window. “You’re late,” he said quietly as Quillion locked the door.

“You’ve been expecting me.”

“Of course I have. Do you want something to drink?”

There were two glasses sitting on the table, a bottle of alcohol between them. Beside the bottle were two vials, one a murky brown, the other clear. Ollivier began to pour one of the glasses without waiting for a response.

“You know I’m going to kill you then.”

The lord looked up, his lip twitching. “I know you are going to try,” he answered. “Though I’m less certain as to why.”

The coldness of the comment brought Quillion up short. “You don’t… of course you know why,” he snapped, taking a step closer. “Cessie.”

“Ah yes,” Ollivier said, running a finger along the table. “The noble Inquisitor. I hear she’s been taken care of most thoroughly. You did a good job, Quillion.”

“A good… you knew!” Quillion took another step forward, placing his hands on the table and leaning to stare Ollivier in the face. “A noblewoman Inquisitor,” he hissed. “And a Terrisman who leaves a message, the steel alphabet carved into metal. These are not coincidences. Those do not go unremarked. You knew”

“I suspected.” Ollivier shrugged. “These were unusual circumstances. You can understand why I would want to be sure.”

“No,” Quillion said quietly. “You were already sure. Do you remember what you said the first time I told you about her?”

Ollivier raised an eyebrow.

“If she’s one of us, I’ll protect her. Those were your words. One of us, and she’d have your protection.”

“Which she obviously did not, given you had dealt with her.”

“Did she?” The young obligator met Ollivier’s gaze, and it was difficult to tell whose eyes were colder. He was quiet a moment, and then whispered, “I didn’t suspect her until the end. I didn’t even raise a voice against her. Doesn’t that sound a lot like protection?” He gave a mirthless laugh. “A besotted obligator defending her honour.”

Ollivier stared at the young man as if he were mad. “What are you implying?”

“You know what I’m implying, my lord. You did offer her protection. Because she was one of you. She was the Inquisitor. And you are spiked.”

Ollivier lowered the glass. Slowly, he gestured to the vials on the table.

“Do you know what this is, Quillion?” he asked, his voice carefully level. “You don’t know the name of it, but this is the poison the skaa used on you. And this,” he gestured at the clear vial, “is the antidote. If I were spiked, would I have had both prepared for you?”

Quillion frowned, and for a moment, his curiosity overwhelmed his anger. "An antidote?" He took a closer look at the bottles. It was true, the clear vial looked like something that could be mixed colorless lay, odourlessly, with water, but still... "You're lying."

"Why would I do that?" Ollivier answered sharply. "It was difficult to find, possibly even unique; I have no idea where a simple skaa learned to create such a potent blend. You need daily refreshers of the dose from that... tavern to keep you alive don't you?" He tapped the clear vial with a long finger. "I guarantee you, this will flush it out of your system. It might be unpleasant, but you won't be dependant on those skaa anymore."

Despite how he felt about Ollivier, the offer was tempting. "Why?" he asked,being the vial. "You have plenty of tools. Why go to the effort of saving me?"

“Because you’ve done me a great service in rooting out the Canton of Inquisition, Quillion. I wasn’t about to let you die. And,” he added with a smile, “in the process, you rid me of a number of potential troublemakers.”

“Modeft,” Quillion interrupted. “Weiry. Digits, Shimble, Ridge. Kukri. Herwybe. Dyring, Eddy, Fnord. Maxil, Shiv, Lam, Lucy. Peng. Aspren.” He choked slightly. “R-Roban. They weren’t troublemakers. They had names. And because of you, because of me, they’re dead. Because I didn’t stop Cessie sooner.”

“Oh, Quillion!” Lord Ollivier began laughing, as if Quillion were a child who'd said something silly. “You make it sound as if they mattered!”

Quillion whipped up his duelling cane and swung it for Lord Olliviers head.

The old man raised his forearm, and the cane shattered.

Quillion’s eyes widened briefly, as Ollivier placed both hands on his thick desk and shoved. It pushed forward, catching Quillion at the waist. He rolled over it and landed at Ollivier’s feet, before the old man planted a kick in his stomach, a kick strong enough to send him flying across the room and bang into the wall.

That’s… that’s not possible! He stared at the man in shock, the taste of blood filling his mouth. He fumbled at his waist for the metal flask, taking a gasp of it to wash away the taste as the Lord approached. He was old, almost ragged. There was no way he could have that much strength in him. It was impossible. Unless…

“You’re a thug?” he whispered as Ollivier towered over him. He placed his hand on the wall to support himself as he rose to his feet, body shaking. It felt like the kick had broken something.

“A Pewterarm,” Ollivier corrected coldly. “And a well-guarded secret. You've spent too long with the skaa, Quillion. You start to sound like one of them.”

The obligator thrust with his broken cane, and Ollivier side-stepped. As he went past, Quillion re-adjusted his balance, stopping and turning on his heel to drive the wooden splinters into his eyes. Somehow, Ollivier managed to dodge it, stepping back out of Quillion’s reach, and then stepping in to seize his wrist.

Quillion gave a cry as he squeezed, feeling the bones in it break. His broken cane clattered to the floor uselessly.

His eyes beginning to tear up, he reached for the flask again, and managed a quick sip of it before Ollivier knocked it aside. His felt the iron-flakes catch in his burning throat as Ollivier seized him by it, hoisting him into the air.

“I’m disappointed, Quillion,” the old man said quietly. “Sincerely. You have always been so useful and loyal. I blame the skaa for this. And I want you to know that, when this is over, I will make them pay for what they have done to you."

Quillion coughed, and Ollivier loosened his grip to allow the man to talk.

“You… were an allomancer?” He coughed. “When did you… Snap?”

“Snap? I didn't snap. I’ve been burning Pewter for years.”

“Oh.” Quillion met the man’s eyes, then smiled, crooked and bloody. “Because I Snapped in the mists last night.”

Quillion raised his broken arm and gestured, as if he were pulling something towards him. In fact, almost as if he were…

Lurching.

Ollivier released his grip, and spun around dodge, or block, or catch the metal flask lurching towards Quillion and himself. The obligator wasn’t sure what his old master had intended on doing, and he never would be. In a few seconds, Ollivier was lying on the ground, choking to death.

It wasn’t from a lurched flask. That was still lying on the floor, right where Ollivier had left it.

He was dying because what was left of Quillion’s duelling cane was stabbed through his throat.

Quillion collapsed onto the ground, and stared at Ollivier as he convulsed, blood spreading from the open-neck wound into the carpet. Slowly, the convulsions turned to jerks, then small twitches, and then stopped altogether. Quillion still didn’t take his eyes off him.

“Keep the cane,” he managed to mutter, dragging himself to his feet. “It’s broken anyway.”

He had to be quick. Their fight was brief, but someone would have heard the commotion. Claiming to have allomancer might work as an effective bluff once, but he had no intention of testing it on every guard in the canton. He wanted to get out. But first, his eyes snapped to the table.

It had been a fine oak, pre-dating Ollivier and the previous two Lords. It had been a dark wood, polished to shining. Now it was just so much broken timber blocking the doorframe. Quillion quickly thanked the Sliver; if Ollivier could do that to oak, he was lucky to be leaving the room in one piece. Even so, he felt a sting of regret and annoyance. Whatever had been in the vials was now destroyed; if Ollivier was right, and that was the on,y antidote, he was as dead as the Survivor.

It wasn't an antidote, he told himself. It was probably just another sort of poison. Even so, he avoided looking at the desk as He walked towards the windows, and shoved them open with a shoulder.

He always kept them closed, Quillion realised as the mist curled in. He’d always thought that it was because Ollivier wasn’t a misting, or because he was afraid of an airborne assassin. Now he’d never know.

But did he want to know? Probably not.

He’d got what he was after, and was surprised to find the taste sour. He hadn't given much thought to the idea of life after this.

There was a banging on the door. The desk Ollivier had shoved against it was proving to be an effective barricade, but it wouldn't last forever. Certainly wouldn't last long enough for Quillion to inspect the body for spikes. He was just going to have to trust that he’d done the right thing.

I did, he reminded himself. Even if he wasn’t spiked, he was a bad person. He deserved to die.

That thought repeating in his head, over and over, he pulled his ash-stained cloak out of his bag, and began edging his way out of the window, up the wall, and onto the roof.

As he left, he heard the cry rise up in the Canton of Lord Olliviers murder. He thought he heard the words “Inquisitor” and “spiked”, and smiled to himself. He must have been right.

Tomorrow, we end this, he thought to himself resolutely. One way or another.

He limped his way across the mist-covered rooftops. He’d get away from the Canton, drop into an alleyway. Find someone to help him with his arm.

Burn the robes and the soft shoes. They weren't him any more.

Then arrive at Dyring/Roban’s inn in his ash-cloak. He’d made a mistake in killing Roban. He hoped he’d righted it in killing Ollivier. Either way, he didn't plan on making another.

Edited February 26, 2014 by Quiver

[Alvron]

"Now I need you to deliver this package to Alon in Blackwater Village.  Don't let anyone see you handing it over.  Your the only one I can trust this to Jac.  Go as soon as your able and if Alon allows it, stay there.  It will be too dangerous to return."  Handing the small package over Vron gives Jac a pouch full of boxings. "These should allow you to travel there quickly."

 

Closing the door, Vron turns to his workbench. One concoction to go.  If this doesn't purge Modeft's poison from my body then nothing will.  Swallowing the liquid he quickly doubles over in agony. Just need to wait for it to be fully absorbed.  Gasping in pain, Vron reaches for the vial containing the antidote.  Just a little longer.  Vision dimming he grabs the vial and pulls the stopper out with his teeth.  Almost there.  Raising a shaking hand he tips the contents down his throat.

 

 

Looking at the package Vron had just given him, Jac heads down the stairs.  Once on the ground floor his friends walked over, Luka and Harv leading the rest.  Raising his eyes Jac looked each of them. "Grab what supplies and equipment you need.  We're leaving."  As everyone filed out, Jac heard a soft thump from the floor above.  "Good bye my friend." he whispered.

 

 

I've grown too attached to Jac to let him stay here.  Besides, Alon needs all the help he can get.

[Metacognition]

Day 10 (The Night of Blood)

 

Grave had found it difficult to focus on his religion. He knew he should have been more devote, perhaps then they wouldn’t be in this crazy mess, but at times it seemed as if Ja had abandoned him. Ever since the Lord Ruler had fallen, his luck had just gotten worse and worse.

 

First, his original crew had been scattered, making him leave Luthadel and travel to Urteau. On the trip, he was robbed twice and beaten the second time when the bandits realized that he had nothing of value. He arrived in Urteau just in time for Straff Venture to make his life even harder. Then, just as things were starting to look up and he’d found a new crew, an Inquisitor had come along and destroyed this crew too. Add to that the poisoning and watching those that he had just started to call friends getting picked off one by one, some would say it was impressive that he still had any faith at all!

 

So when someone sat down next to him in the small shack he had appropriated, he didn’t even flinch. When they pulled out a dagger that was still stained with blood on it, he barely bat an eyelash.

 

“So it’s my turn now, is it? Praise the Ja.” He calmly remarked. “It took you guys long enough. This must just be yet another example of Ja’s morbid sense of humor; making me live for as long as I have. I’ve had the worst luck this last year and this is just the icing on the cake. So do me one last kindness, eh? Make it quick. I think I’ve suffered enough already. Although, knowing my luck, your kind gets off on causing as much pain as possible. Praise the J-”

 

Grave didn’t get a chance to finish. The dagger was in the strangers hand and through Grave’s throat in an instant. Whether it was mercy or just annoyance at having to listen to Grave constantly praise his religion after every speech, Grave got the quick death he wanted.

 

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Barty had to admire Herwynbe’s work. He’d never be able to duplicate it, at least not as long as both Clancy and Aether were in his head, each trying to be the one to write the messages.

 

Clancy wanted to tell a story, one that would stir the Crew into newfound depths of vigor and righteousness. Aether wanted more lists. So far, Barty had done his best to appease both of them, but it was getting harder now that Mat and Beetle were trying to get in on the action as well.

 

“More flowery words, Barty! You’ll never convince them unless even your words seem commanding!”

 

Barty tended to mumble to himself with the voices of the dead that only he could hear. Sometimes he wondered if they were really there or if he was going mad.

 

“Remember the list. Without a list, all the words mean nothing. A list will give people someplace to work from! Don’t forget the list!”

 

“Hi guys!”

 

“Shut up, Mat. “

 

“I just like the blood.”

 

It could easily get confusing, even for Barty. He didn’t know where these voices had come from and they definitely hadn’t helped him any. He just woke up one day and there they were. Could people wake up and suddenly be insane? Barty didn’t think so, but if he was insane, would he have noticed that he was insane beforehand?

 

In the end, he decided as he always did, that it didn’t matter. He would just have to do the best he could and hope it was enough.

 

Clancy seemed to take control of his hand and added a little flourish at the bottom of the message he had just finished. That type of thing seemed to be happening more and more often recently. While the thrill of the thrill of leaving messages was gone now that Dyring and Roban were both dead, Barty felt compelled to try to help the Crew in any way possible, so he continued.

 

He stood back and admired his work.

 

“It’s a good list, Barty. It could use more detail, but it’s a good list and that’s what counts.”

 

“I still say it doesn’t inspire enough confidence, but that bit about ‘endowing your knowledge’ unto them was a nice touch.”

 

Barty almost smiled. That was probably the closest Aether and Clancy had come to agreeing in awhile. Perhaps he could do this yet.

 

“Meh, it needed more red. At least then it would look more like blood.”

 

Barty sighed. Oh well, he couldn’t please them all and Beetle did like his blood. He gathered his supplies and made for the door as he continued to mumble out loud as the voices argued.

 

“Umm hey, you guys? Do you hear that?”

 

“Shut Up, Mat!”

 

Just then, Barty heard it too. A whistling sound in the night. He was standing right in the doorway, getting ready to leave when a trio of coins seemed to manifest out of the mist. They were shot with such force, they tore straight through him.

 

“Oh hey! There we go! Blood!”

 

“Be nice, Beetle. This means we have to find somewhere else to go or face Kelsier in the afterlife. After what we did, you really want to face that?”

 

“Yeah, but still… this was always my favorite part.”

 

As Barty quickly faded away, a figure stepped out of the mists. This death had been… unsatisfactory. It was too quick; too painless. Something needed to be done. That was when the figure noticed the writing materials that had tumbled from Barty’s grasp. An idea formed and Barty’s supplies and his body were dragged back into the Inn….

 

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Gamon had a girl on each arm, as was typical after he left the rest of the Crew. Women just seemed to congregate to wherever he happened to be, even here in the Harrows. That didn’t mean that he always took them home with him, just that they happened to flock to his beautiful face. All the attention made it a bit easier for him to deal with all the deaths.

 

Not that he minded the deaths much. He had caused far more than most of the Crew knew. In fact, he found himself reveling in them. His favorite so far was getting rid of that overtly confident fellow, Ridge.

 

Ridge had tried to set himself up as Gamon’s rival, even with his disastrous taste in clothing and a nose that stuck out way too far and a blotchy complexion and… well, and just everything. The man had been a joke and Gamon had enjoyed finally putting him in his place. Besides, there could be only one Casanova in the Crew. Even though Ridge didn’t really offer any actual competition, Gamon felt like Ridge’s flagrant costumes and outlandish mannerisms were distracting the Crew from their really important member; him. Perhaps tonight he would take both of the girls home with him. He deserved a reward after all.

 

Out of the mist, came a spray of coins. They hit the ground directly in front of Gamon, causing the girls to shriek and jump away from him. It was almost a chivalrous move, considering that someone new to Steel could’ve accidentally hit one of them if they had just fired on Gamon.

 

Unfortunately, this also gave Gamon a chance to flee and so he did. He ran back through the Harrows, dodging every now and then and weaving between refuse. He finally his a staircase up and fled into Urteau proper.

 

After many twists and turns, he ducked behind some crates. There was almost no way his attacker could’ve followed him. His attacker would’ve needed some way to leap through the air and bypass all the curving corners Gamon had taken and…

 

“Oh cra-” Gamon started as another shower of coins hit him in the back and the world faded from view.

 

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Three people would never see what the rest of the crew was greeted to when they came to the Inn to get their water.

 

Barty’s body had been torn open and a brush stuck out of the center of it. There was indeed a message written on the wall, but it seemed like it was traced in blood. It didn’t take long for the rest of the Crew to figure out where it had come from….

 

The message read:

 

I am so sorry.

 

I have failed you, even worse than my predecessor did. Time after time, it seems that all I can do is lead you to Ruin. Oh, how I craved your Devotion, but it seems like the Spiked hold a fatal Dominion over me. The best I can do now is Cultivate a final list of suspects, whom I will destroy, on my Honor, with my last, Odious breath.

Seran

Matheiu

Quillion

Wilson

I can only pray that these names will lead to our Preservation, and will not create a Chasm between us. I Endow my last bit of knowledge to you, in the hopes that it will lead to some victory. I hope that we can survive into a Radiant dawn. If we follow the Way of Kings, then we will be born out of the mists into the restless ages, heroes, well on our way to ascension. Law must be restored in this realm, this war must be broken.

 

This may be my final archive.

 

Oh, how I hope it isn't.

 

Hi!

 

Shut. Up. Mat!

 

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Day 10 Begins! You have 48 hours.

 

Barty was a Tineye! Grave was a Rioter! Gamon was a Spiked Soother!

 

 

PMs are no longer allowed. If you want to discuss, you have to do it in thread!

 

 

Updated Player List

Edited February 27, 2014 by Metacognition

[Awesomeness Summoned]

Two more of our brethren gone but It would appear the person who snapped the previous night was a coinshot and was lucky in their choice of targets. Three more spikes to yank out. Gonna be close.

Here is a reminder of the previous day's vote:

Player Votes

Roban - 5 (Gamon, Barty, Quillion, Aonar, Wilson)

Grave - 1 (Vron, Roban)

Mathieu - 0 (Grave)

No Vote - 5 (Windrunner, Wes, Seran, Aether, Mathieu)

Now that we know Grav and Barty were good and Gamon was a spiked soother, this is my interpretation of how that vote went in conjunction with the suspicions I already had. Gamon helped get the ball rolling on Roban. Wilson tagged on an extra vote to make sure they had numbers. Seran and Mathieu abstained from voting to avoid drawing attention since they could sooth one vote off Grave and Mathieu and ensure Roban's demise.

The other alternative is that Gamon, Quillion, Aonar, and Wilson are the spiked and all voted Roban after Barty threw his name in.

Guess that's not narrowing this down all that much but those are my two best guess at the final spiked as they stood yesterday.

Edited February 27, 2014 by Awesomeness Summoned

[Quiver]

Uh... based on that write-up, I feel like I should say that claiming to snap in my write-up was the bluff, not claiming to have snapped a lurcher but actually being a coinshot. (AND HOLY HARMONY, 12 REP GUYS, SERIOUSLY, SO MANY FEELS)

Anyway... I'm sorry again, Roban, for leading to your death; I guess, on the upside, we managed to get a spiked out of it, which at least gives us something to work off of.

Frankly, based on the order of yesterdays votes, I'm leaning towards Mathieu as being a Spiked. Vron and I both suggested two seperate targets, but Gamon didn't respond to the thread until Mathieu was suggested. The only problem I have with it is that Mathieu had his vote soothed away, which Gamon could have done, but it seems odd to soothe him when there was only one vote in his favour. I guess it could depend on when he put his daytime orders, in, but still...

So... sorry, right now I have to vote Matheiu. It seems too coincidental that a spiked would start working on getting Roban's vote up whenever his name was mentioned, and besides, I think Wes has a point. Last game, I joked to Meta that I could Lurch myself every night and "win" by living to the end. I think if I was an Inquisitor, I would spike someone who is both fairly inactive and has already played a spike; the latter would make it seem unlikely for them to be spiked again, and the former would make them unlikely to be targeted if we just forgot about them.

So... yes. A vote for Mathieu (though if you have something to say in your defence, or someone else wants to offer better reasons for someone else, then please do so! I have a promise of no more mistakes to keep.)

Edited March 1, 2014 by Quiver

[Alvron]

I believe that taking out Wilson is our best bet. 

 

Targeting inactives serves no purpose at this stage.  With three spiked remaining they still have their two kills per night. (coinshot and teamkill)  If we can kill an active spiked then we will be able to tell if there is any inactive ones as they won't be able to kill two people anymore.

 

As for why we should kill Wilson.  She was part of a group, the seven, which opposed blindly following Peng, of which I was also a member.  Cessie was as well, however Cessie was removed when it was revealed that she was the inquisitor.  But before her death their was one final spiking.  I think they spiked one of the remaining members to continue influencing its members.  Most of the group is now dead, the only remaining ones are: Wilson, Aonar and myself.

[Awesomeness Summoned]

I could be wrong but wouldn't Gamon have been the last one spiked since he was a soother? I'm basing that off Alspren's chart: http://www.17thshard.com/forum/topic/5630-game-2-the-devils-den/?p=100110

Unless there is some dynamic I'm not seeing on how spiked powers works, I think only the last convert could have been a soother. I'm not disputing Wilson's culpability (she is the only one on both of the suspiciously lists I gave) but not sure your reasoning holds up. I agree though that taking out inactives doesn't help.

I'm leaning heavily towards Wilson or Matheiu but still gonna hold off before making a choice. We have time.